


The freedom of distraction

by calavarna



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Hate Sex, M/M, Post-Doomsday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calavarna/pseuds/calavarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You," he snarls, and moves without thinking, pinning the Doctor to a wall smeared with blood and gouged by heat and flame.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The freedom of distraction

Ianto's world ends with flames and metal and shots that kill without piercing the skin. It's not unlike the movies he used to watch as a teenager, with a haze of apocalyptic fire and a group of survivors who are saved by the valiant hero, except their hero is their supposed enemy and the survivors daren't give a word of thanks. Everybody he cares for is dead or worse; swept away into places unknown or left in broken pieces of burnt flesh and solid armour, their screams and pleas all too human, their demands to be released somehow less so.

He is alone.

He is alone, and tired, and the faint tremors that flow through his body are probably indicative of something like shock or anger. He's not sure which, and that scares him more than any alien he's faced today. Ianto has to fight the temptation to run back to the archives, his own private universe largely ignored by everyone and everything to set foot through Torchwood's door, and now mostly untouched by death and destruction. There are no conversion units still smoking and sparking from failing circuitry, no blood dripping down their sides from the knives and drills that cut through flesh and bone with the merest touch. Hiding seems like the perfect plan, a method of escape without leaving the building, but Ianto is conscious of his… responsibilities. That's as good a word as any. Devotion, loyalty, duty.

He stumbles through the long corridors, tripping over bodies and the blown out remains of spent weapons, some of them stolen from the archives and completely useless in battle. He recognises an alien megaphone, probably wielded bravely but foolishly and now barely clasped by hands made lax by the perpetual stillness of death.

It's not funny, but Ianto laughs anyway. It keeps him from crying.

He is still breathing heavily, half from exhaustion and half from growing hysteria, when the sound of slow, wandering footsteps approaching him cuts through the fog of panic.

"You," he snarls, and moves without thinking, pinning the Doctor to a wall smeared with blood and gouged by heat and flame. "You," he says again, softer this time and with an edge of desperation. "You did this."

"Yes."

It's the unapologetic admission that gets under his skin, forces him to step closer, makes him crowd in on the Doctor. His body is an unmoving line of tension as he plants a foot either side of the Doctor's, his hands bracing against the wall and allowing no chance of escape.

Up close, closer than Torchwood's charter probably allows, the Doctor is all long lines and lean planes. He feels hip bones jutting out and pressing against his own, sees sorrow and a hint of madness in weary eyes, knows somehow that there is a personality to match the sharp edges, as changeable as the exaggerated, twisting expressions on his face.

Oh he is so screwed.

"I should turn you over to the new Director." Ianto's not entirely sure who is in charge, but there is bound to be somebody with an ounce of power still around. Management were always good at hiding well behind the front lines while they sent his colleagues, the loyal foot soldiers who functioned solely on the principles of personal glory and the majesty of the Empire, to the slaughterhouse. There's blood on his hands too, but it's warm and wet and far less figurative. He swallows against the rising bile in his throat.

"That wouldn't be a good idea."

He cocks his head to one side and lets a cold smile steal across his face. "I don't think you're in a position to argue."

"Who's arguing?" the Doctor asks, and Ianto bristles at the deliberate contrariness.

"You could have stopped this," Ianto says, trying to keep his voice as steady as the Doctor's stable, empty tone. It's a competition of sorts, where he's the only competitor in a race he has no chance of winning and the Doctor succeeds without knowing. "You could have saved Li-" He cuts off, shaking his head. He's lost already.

"No," the Doctor says, his eyes filled with equal parts of resentment and understanding. "I really couldn't."

Something inside of Ianto snaps – his faith in the benefits of propriety, perhaps – and suddenly he finds himself grasping at the sides of the Doctor's face, leaving streaky marks from fingers stained with blood and ash. And then he's kissing the Doctor, their teeth clashing in a way that is painful but somehow therapeutic. It doesn't feel even remotely right; their bodies don't fit together and they fight for control with bites and scratches that would leave bruises if their bodies didn't already tell the story of destruction through the medium of tender flesh and mottled skin.

It's not enough to make him stop, though. Ianto blinks in silent surprise when he realises he is beginning to get used to the new axis upon which his world rotates. He supposes there is no point trying to fight against it, because everything is wrong and that's the way things will stay until he has taken care of his Responsibilities.

Ianto lets himself relax for a second and the next moment he is being spun around and his back shoved roughly against the wall. A gasp tears from his lips as the Doctor removes his hands from Ianto's chest, holding him in place with a look rather than a touch. When they kiss again, he feels the ragged breaths filling the body against his, mouthfuls of air taken without breaking away and shared between them until his head begins to spin from a lack of oxygen. He's got one hand tangled in the Doctor's hair, wild and flaring in all directions but good to hold onto, his other hand fumbling at shirt buttons, ripping the breakable threads and scattering the small discs of plastic across the floor.

The Doctor has a grip on his hips, inside the waistband of his unfastened trousers, fingernails digging in and drawing blood that wells in crescent-shaped wounds. He'll have yet more bruises come the morning, but he can't bring himself to care. It's not like there's anybody left to see them. Even the Doctor barely looks at him, just appears to see through Ianto with eyes that invite any possible distraction from reality.

"Not here," he gasps as one of the Doctor's hands leaves his hip and wraps around his cock. Unexpected acts of passion aside, his sense of decency hasn't deserted him. Mostly. At any rate, he's entirely cognisant of the consequences of being seen, even thought the security staff manning the CCTV monitors were the first to fall. Even if there's nobody around to see, they'll still be recorded and he's familiar enough with apocalyptical procedures to know that the building will soon be swarming with UNIT officers and their distant, forgotten cousins from Torchwood Two and Three. If the rumours he's heard are accurate, Harkness from the Cardiff branch would enjoy the show far more than most people would admit to in public.

"The TARDIS. This way," the Doctor says, and Ianto follows, wanting to lead but not knowing where to go.

The ship isn't much to look at, when they round the corner and spot it, and the Doctor frowns when he says so. It's more of a box, really, and no matter how far the rooms stretch through the expanses of the mind-bending space ship, Ianto can't shake the notion that, for all intents and purposes, he's in a fucking box with an alien who has suspicious and possibly blinding tastes in clothing. The blue stripes worry him more than anything else he's seen at Torchwood.

"You got a bedroom?"

"No."

"Here, then." Ianto drapes his suit jacket over a railing that apparently doubles as a clothing stand, if the other item slung casually over it is anything to go by. Something about the whole situation strikes him as funny, and he bites back a laugh as he realises he's about to fuck an alien who could wipe out his very existence. Still, the Doctor's coat soon joins his jacket, and it's not exactly dinner and flowers but that he's allowed inside the ship is permission enough.

Ianto's not sure what the hell he's doing there but with the Doctor backed against the strange, circular console, and hands working quickly to divest them both of their remaining clothes, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's not entirely in over his head. That's all the incentive he needs. It's not like his life can get any worse.

"Having second thoughts?" The Doctor hisses, his breath close and warm on Ianto's skin. "Scared?"

Ianto sends a prayer of thanks out into the ether, grateful to the powers that be that the Doctor doesn't appear to expect a reply because his answers are _no_ and _fuck, yes_ respectively. "Are you?" he counters, keeping his tone even only by sheer strength of will.

"You humans. You're such children."

"Seems like you're not above craving the companionship of a mere child," Ianto says mockingly, brushing a hand over the Doctor's cock and covering his fascination with indifference in the way only one well-trained in research could manage. He's not high enough up the professional ladder – or he wasn't until a few hours ago – to be allowed to participate in hands-on research, and he's always liked the books and notes that guide his work, but he can see the benefit of practical experience. It's intriguing, addictive, and would get him either fired or promoted if the majority of his employers hadn't just become walking advertisements for a scrap metal yard.

"Are you going to do anything about it?" The Doctor snarls, pushing forward angrily but, it seems to Ianto, barely using a quarter of his strength. Not enough to make him budge, at any rate.

"I was planning on it," Ianto says, and drops to his knees, smirking at the bemused hum that becomes a moan as he licks at the head of the Doctor's cock, his tongue swiping and swirling across the tip, enough to pleasure but not give satisfaction. _This_ is a game he knows he can win.

The Doctor thrusts his hips forward, and for a moment Ianto chokes, trying to breathe and relax his throat at the same time. The Doctor's face is creased with something approaching pleasure, his fingers splay long and wide against the console, and his moans are soft and short, sounding like words to Ianto's ears, but not in any language he's ever heard and, fuck, haven't aliens discovered babel fish yet?

He pulls back, a cold smile working its way across his face when he elicits a groan of disappointment. And then there's a hand gripping his head, pulling his hair, trying to force him forward again. _No fucking way,_ he thinks, jerking his head away and hissing as his scalp protests the sudden pull. He climbs to his feet.

"Turn around." There's a hardness in his voice that isn't usually present, during sex or otherwise, and it's almost instinctual, a low growl that threatens retribution if disobeyed. The Doctor is probably more desperate than he is dutiful, but he still doesn't waste time in moving, and Ianto isn't going to deny that the frisson of power that runs down his spine feels good. Very good.

He nudges the Doctor's legs further apart and strokes his cock, slicked only with spit and sweat. There's no lube and no condoms, and Ianto hesitates for a moment, but the way the Doctor arches his back and lets out a hissed "yes, now!" when Ianto's fingers brush against his entrance and press inwards is reason enough to acquiesce to the demand. He remembers the look in the Doctor's eyes, the loss and pain that had to be stamped out and the emptiness that begged to be filled. Ianto nods to himself, his mind made up.

He pushes in hard enough to rattle the strange gears and levers that are attached the console he's got the Doctor bent over. He gasps as long fingers reach back, not pushing him away but pulling him closer, fingernails scratching and digging in until they raise parallel lines of blood. Ianto brings one of his hands up to brace against the Doctor's body, his fingers flexing and clutching and skimming over a row of prominent ribs and tangling in sparse chest hair.

His thrusts have no rhythm, or control, or preference for the pleasure or pain he's probably causing, and he's close to coming and this is one situation where the first past the post gets all the glory. Still, Ianto wraps a hand around the Doctor's cock and strokes him, slower than his thrusts, and then faster, varying the pressure and timing with an unpredictability that surprises him. No sense in making things simple or easy; it's not like either of them are there out of anything as trite as love.

It's either sheer coincidence or a lapse in concentration that has him pushing in and stroking at the same time, and he stifles a sigh even as the Doctor moans something unintelligible and comes over the console. And then it's almost like there's a pressure on his entire body, forcing all the air out as he gasps for breath. The pace of his thrusts quickens until he gives a short shout and spills into the Doctor. He doesn't move for a second, not out of tenderness or because he wants to relish the moment, but because he's not sure his legs won't fail on him at any moment. He's come too far to spoil it all by falling over.

When he does move, it's an abrupt withdrawal that jolts them both back into the harsh reality. Ianto steps – staggers, really – away, and when his mind manages to catch up to his body, he finds himself hunched over, reaching for his clothes and wishing desperately that the TARDIS would dematerialise as abruptly as it appeared, leaving him alone and with no awkward moments to navigate his way through.

He has never been the beneficiary of unexpected strokes of luck.

"Leaving?" the Doctor asks, his clothes askew and showing no sign of caring.

"Not much point in staying." Ianto's throat is dry and he barely recognises the sound of his own voice, made raw and bitter by guilt and regret.

"No," the Doctor says, "not much point in anything anymore."

Yeah. The Doctor is on to something there. Never have truer words been spoken, and all that bullshit. "I should… I have to… go." And apparently he's lost all sense of eloquence. Wonderful. "I have to go," he repeats, already moving on to his next task mentally if not physically.

"If that's what you want," the Doctor says diffidently, shrugging on his rumpled coat and leaning against the console. "Things to do, places to go, people to see and all that. Not a bad idea, actually."

"Something like that." It's _exactly_ like that, but Ianto refuses to allow the Doctor the satisfaction of being right. It's beyond petty, but he's too tired to care. There's too much to do to bother with unnecessary niceties.

"Well then, best be off." The Doctor looks at him, and Ianto nods almost imperceptibly. He has a feeling he's not alone in mourning the lost and for a brief moment, less time than it takes for a second hand to tick over, he considers asking for help. That's reason enough to leave, right there.

Ianto isn't exactly well versed in the etiquette of post-unexpected-but-hot sexual encounters, but his default setting in uncomfortable settings is something along the lines of _unflinchingly polite_ so the words "thank you" and "I'm sorry" and "goodbye" spill from his mouth even as manages to exit the ship without looking at the Doctor.

He barely manages to avoid running the few metres to the corner and rounds it, slumping against the wall the moment he knows he is out of sight. Surrounded by bodies of fallen friends and his carefully planned future in tatters, Ianto smiles suddenly. His world may have fallen into chaos but he is alive. That's a start.

A rush of air sweeps through the corridor as a low churning noise starts and then fades away. He straightens his tie. Work to do.


End file.
